Tropical Scents
by SMKLegacy
Summary: COMPLETE: Grissom runs into someone he never expected to see in Las Vegas. R for sexual situations and one truly "R" worthy word. (4 ch.)
1. Not Joking

**Tropical Scents**

TEASER: Grissom runs into someone he never expected to see in Las Vegas.

DISCLAIMER: Last time I checked, the evidence was stacked against me in my claim to own even a single stock option in the many partners who make up the CSI franchise. Therefore, I plead guilty to the charge of having fun with the crew and promise to have them back in time for the next night shift to start.

RATING: R for sexual content

SPOILERS: Anything is possible through "NHI".

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not holding this hostage for reviews, but if you're so inclined, encouraging feedback would be nice. I have a fire extinguisher for flames, however.

- - - - -

A faint whiff of lime and coconut caught Grissom's attention as he sat as his desk working on the never ending paperwork of a supervisor. He sighed as he watched Warrick and Sara laughing in the corridor outside his office, each holding a cup from the nearby smoothie place. He had no doubt that Sara's lime-garnished cup held a piña colada drink. The content of Warrick's cup concerned him not at all, even as their laughter caused the Vegas native to slosh some of his beverage onto his own shirt.

He was glad to see Sara enjoying herself again, however brief it might be, but he wanted that laughter to be with him – hell, for him or at him – with a desperation that kept him awake during the day. If he allowed himself complete honesty, it wasn't just her laughter he craved. Everything about her drugged his senses and his sensibility: her astounding intelligence, her impeccable logic, her dry wit, her gap-toothed smile, her quirky left eyebrow, and every inch of her long, lean body. The tropical fruit scent only made it worse as it evoked a powerful, beautiful memory of better times with her.

He had only told two people in the world the depth of his attraction to Sara. Others knew, or thought they knew, but only those two women had heard the whole story from him of his own free will. One of those two joined Sara and Warrick as he watched, and something she said prompted Sara to double over laughing as Warrick glared with what Grissom knew to be feigned offense and yelped, "Catherine!"

Grissom would have bet good money that whatever Catherine said had to do with the fruit garnishing Sara's drink. He doubted that it had to do with what brought such wonderful memories of Sara to his mind, but Catherine did know the story. So did the other . . .

He sighed again. It was bad enough that the rumor mill still referred to his alleged tryst Lady Heather once in a while; if anyone knew about his not-so-alleged tryst with one of America's most famous sex therapists, he wasn't sure he could ever face them again. Heather thought she knew him and thus told him things about himself that had elements of truth; Hank did know him because she got him to talk about himself – a lot. If anyone ever cross examined him about the two relationships, he would have to answer honestly that Heather might have been a distraction, had he allowed himself to lower his walls, but Hank met some real needs.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a black velvet jewelry pouch. He studied it for several seconds, turning it over in his hands before he tugged it open and tipped it up to empty its contents onto his desk.

Grissom could think of any number of people whose reaction would have been stupefied surprise had they entered his office just then. The cloisonné piece had no evidentiary markings to belie his interest in the object as purely personal. He who avowed only science as his religion took comfort from a cross.

He heard Hank's sultry Southern voice in his head as he stared through the memento. "You've named your love for Sara, Gil. Now you have to work up the courage to claim it. If you don't, you'll have no one to blame but yourself for your unhappiness."

He wouldn't have been able to express in words why the cross and its accompanying charge comforted him, had anyone known enough to ask. But in some strange way, the advice gave him hope. Well, the advice and the winking golden-green eye that flashed in his memory along with a final command: "Send it back to me with your wedding invitation, Gil. And for God's sake, don't do a Vegas wedding."

He remembered laughing at her there in the lobby of the hotel in Scottsdale, looking right into those eyes with which he should have been besotted. Her four inch heels brought those eyes right to his eye level. "Hank, I don't have much choice but to do a Vegas wedding. That's where we live."

She had swatted him on the chest and called him a smart ass, and then she got into the airport shuttle and disappeared from his life, leaving in her wake only the cross, her words, and three nights of the best sex he had ever had.

His phone rang; he sighed one more time and put the cross away, tucking the velvet bag into its place in the drawer as he went back to his job deciphering the final moments of the now dead.

- - - - -

Grissom knew that Sara emulated him entirely too much. That evidence appeared at every turn, and this day was no exception. He was not at all surprised to find her working the trace from the murder/suicide he had tossed to her and Warrick earlier in the shift.

Nor was he surprised to hear her humming Vivaldi as she danced around the table, divining from the evidence what it would say to her to help them find the truth of what happened at a house in west Vegas. He stood watching her from the doorway for longer than he should have, just because sometimes he had to have a fix of whatever it was that drew him to her as the moth to the flame.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He wasn't surprised to see Catherine's text message: WB GN ND U/S ASAP. He shook his head at the urgency Catherine could infuse into 13 characters, especially since this particular emergency had nothing to do with work.

He cleared his throat in hopes that he would get Sara's attention, but it didn't work. He just started to speak anyway. "I love to see you so dedicated to your job that you work two hours past end of shift on the start of your weekend."

The grin that split her face caused his heart rate to spike. "Thanks, I think."

He gave her an answering smile and took a couple of steps into the lab, wanting the conversation to be a little more private. It wouldn't do for anyone to overhear what he supposed would be called banter if Josh Lyman and Donna Moss on _The West Wing_ were doing it. "I obviously didn't put enough sarcasm into that statement."

"Are you telling me to go home?" He loved the quirked eyebrow that accompanied the question, as though she were trying to emphasize the absurdity of him, the ultimate workaholic, telling her to go home.

"Sara, hon . . ." He came so close to calling her "honey," a word he associated only with her and with the best times of their relationship, whatever it had been. He met her gaze as he stroked his beard, wondering how to say what he knew he needed to say. "Sara, go home. Live life for a couple of days. Hell, go play with the living for a couple of days."

She laughed at him.

He fought the grin that wanted to come at that laughter by crooking his head down to look over his glasses at her. "I wasn't joking, Sara." The smile won anyway.

"Neither was I," she said under her breath.

_What the hell does that mean?_ He knew what he wanted it to mean, but that would have to wait.

"Close up shop and we can go for coffee at the usual place. Catherine is planning something for Warrick's birthday and wants us all there."

"How is she going to keep Warrick out of it? Won't he be suspicious if we all go to breakfast without him?"

He just smiled more, feeling at ease around her for the first time in more than a year. "The rest of them went to breakfast an hour and a half ago. Catherine just called to say Warrick went home to sleep."

"Oh."

He nodded at her. He took three steps to leave, but stopped in the doorway and spoke without turning around. "What weren't you joking about, Sara?" Maybe it would make her think about him like he hoped she had when she first arrived in Vegas so many years ago.

"Figure it out for yourself," she told him, tucking her head down just a little.

He took only a little comfort from the fact that her lips were upturned in a smile, even if he couldn't see her eyes.


	2. Hanging

DISCLAIMER: Last time I checked, the evidence was stacked against me in my claim to own even a single stock option in the many partners who make up the CSI franchise. Therefore, I plead guilty to the charge of having fun with the crew and promise to have them back in time for the next night shift to start.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The only resemblance between the person Grissom never expects to see in Las Vegas and me is the first name. Honest. It's the only way the jokes work. Well, okay, if you insist, I'll tell you that we share a title, but not the one at the butt of the jokes. And if there were any other similarities, there wouldn't be a story because, well, I'm just not Grissom's type! More's the pity . . .

- - - - -

Seven eventful weeks of Grissom's unfulfilled life passed. Warrick celebrated his birthday for over a month, ending with a very belated surprise party at Sara's. Conrad Ecklie became the Assistant Director of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Nightshift got saddled with some new faces and Catherine became the swing shift supervisor, getting Nick and Warrick as part of her team.

The changes left him frustrated and irritated. He had recognized the signs of burnout in himself long before he had seen them in Sara, so applying his own advice to himself for a change, he took three consecutive days off. He had contemplated going away for a longer time to use some of his accumulated vacation time, but he didn't trust Ecklie to take such a request well during his first few weeks as head of the lab. Or ever, frankly, but that was a problem for another day.

Sitting at breakfast in his favorite restaurant at the Mirage on his first morning of the long "weekend", Grissom acknowledged to himself that the painful break up of his team still gnawed at him, not because Catherine didn't deserve the promotion but because Ecklie didn't. If Grissom had been in charge of the decision, Catherine would have gotten the AD position, Ecklie would have lost his job, the swing shift supervisor would have gotten Conrad's job, and Sara would have gotten the swing shift job.

Such an arrangement would have eliminated one of the two biggest obstacles to the furtherance of his relationship with Sara – and he was daily realizing that age was not as big an obstacle as he had always thought. That wasn't the way the world worked, of course, so he was left with a reality he hadn't yet conquered.

What plagued him recently was what Sara wasn't joking about, all the more so after Catherine tried in her not-so-subtle way to prod him into action at Warrick's birthday party. He still wasn't sure that his hope, that she wanted him to play in the land of the living with her, was what she really meant that morning before breakfast. He found himself in the same position he had occupied since he foolishly asked her to join his team more than four years ago: alone and terrified to make a move that might throw the axis of his world out of balance.

A silvery voice interrupted his bitter reverie with a southern accented, "Good morning."

He looked up, expecting to find the source of the voice speaking to him, but the only other patrons in the restaurant this early sat around a table a few feet away, obviously introducing themselves as handshakes passed across and around the circle. The voice could only belong to the curvaceous woman with the long cinnamon copper hair who sat with her back to him. His heart rate spiked when she spoke again.

"I'm Reverend Doctor Fitzhenry. You've probably read my bio since I'm the keynoter." She turned her head and Grissom saw her smile in profile, one with a lack of ego that not many people could achieve. "I go by Hank."

Someone else at the table asked the same question he had first overheard, then experienced a dozen times in her company, two years ago in Arizona. "Hank? What's your real name?"

She turned away from him to answer, but he wished he could see her expression again, and wondered if it had changed in the interval. "Um, Ruth."

The longest it had ever taken anyone to make the inevitable joke two years ago had been ten seconds. This time, it was three and two people made it at once with high, squeaking German-accented voices. "Dr. Ruth, Dr. Ruth!"

He chuckled at Hank's fallen shoulders. "And that would be why, given my profession, I go by Hank."

"What, you don't think it's funny that a minister named Dr. Ruth is also a sex therapist?"

He'd heard that observation thirteen times, too.

"I don't, but I'd like to think God is amused."

Grissom listened to the interaction for a while, an auditory voyeur unable to tear himself away from the form and voice of a woman with whom he by rights should have fallen head over heels in love. He wondered if he could leave without being seen, but then couldn't bring himself to signal for his check before the group at the other table began to rifle through pockets and purses for their preferred methods of payment.

A second before it happened, he knew Hank would turn around. He sat, frozen, as she recognized him, expecting some move on her part to include him in the final few moments of her group's breakfast. She spared him that, but her golden-green eyes pinned him to his chair as effectively as he had ever affixed a butterfly to a mat, so even if he had wanted to leave before she came over, he couldn't.

Her table emptied and long before he was prepared for the force that was Hank Fitzhenry, she settled with easy grace on the bench across from him.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and reached for his hands, removing them from the cup of lukewarm coffee he had been gripping without realizing it. "You're still in love with her and you still haven't done a damned thing about it."

He looked up from the abandoned mug with what he hoped was a disarming smile. "Hello to you, too. Are you sure you're really a minister?"

"Not about me, Gil Grissom. About you and Sara, who doesn't have a clue how fortunate she is that you love her to the depth of the Marianas Trench." He read something in her expression that might have been pity, but whether for him or for Sara, he could not have said.

"Am I that obvious?" He wondered if she knew she was stroking his wrists.

Hank snorted. "Honey, I see this all the time."

He shifted at her term of endearment. "Honey" meant Sara to him; to hear someone address him like that left him discomfited. "What, supervisors in love with subordinates?"

"That, too." She looked at him, expecting him to figure it out. He had seen that look a lot during the time they spent together before. Hank was the only person other than Sara who had ever challenged him to use his intellect in self-reflection.

He closed his eyes and tried to think like his interlocutor. After a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Middle aged men who are so content in their misery that they're afraid to go after what would make them happy?" He struggled not to show a physical reaction to the thought of Dr. Lurie that crossed his mind just then.

She nodded. "Never said you were stupid. Just slow." Any insult he might have felt washed away with her bright grin. "I presume, at the very least, that Ms. Sidle is still single and still working for you."

He nodded. "We have had our . . . issues . . . of late, but yes, to both."

"You came clean to Catherine, right?"

How she could remember the details of his life and his quest for Sara so easily, Gil couldn't begin to understand. He surmised, however, that her memory for people's life stories might be similar to his ability to memorize thousands of species of insects and just as many random quotations. He knew it said something not all together flattering about him as a person that bugs and words were more important than people.

"Yes. She had guessed most of it. When she asked me what prompted me to tell her, I conveniently left you out, though. I'm not sure I could explain you to anyone else."

"Can you explain me to yourself?"

Well, no, not really. Not a man to seek out sex for the sake of sex, and certainly not a man to open up to anyone he knew, let alone to total strangers, for one weekend two years ago he had done both to a greater extent than at any other point in his life. Perhaps the inexplicability of his immediate connection to Hank was one part of his sentimentalism with regard to the cross he kept tucked in his desk drawer.

She chuckled. "Yeah, didn't think so."

She still held his hands and caressed his wrists with gentle pressure. He wasn't sure if she was comforting him or seducing him.

"Why are you here?" It somehow didn't feel appropriate for him to admit that he had been eavesdropping earlier.

If she knew, which he suspected she did, she gave no indication. "A conference. I'm the keynote speaker for the Association of Professional Marriage and Family Counselors."

"Ah." If her intent was to seduce him, her subtle ministrations on his arms were working. He shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. "How long are you here?" His voice came out with a more expectant tone than he anticipated, as though his body were betraying him organ by organ.

"Through the weekend. I decided to take a little vacation time, too."

"So today's Tuesday . . ." He couldn't believe where his mind was going. But his mouth followed without check. "I don't work again until Friday night. I could, um . . . take another night off if you would be willing to suffer my company that long."

She raised her left eyebrow at him and quirked a grin. "When is Sara's next night off?"

"What does Sara have to do with this?" A voice in his head screamed _everything_, but another voice, very masculine and needy, blared over it: _nothing!_

"Everything," Hank said in what he hoped was unknowing agreement with his head. He wouldn't put it past her, however, to be reading his mind. "Look, Gil, I'm not going to lie to you and say that accepting this particular speaking engagement was coincidental to its location. I had every intention of seeking you out, quite frankly in hopes that you had been shot down by Sara and were in serious need of the arms of a good woman to provide emotional and physical comfort." She let go of his hands as if suddenly conscious of her actions. "You haven't even tried."

All he could do was look away from her penetrating stare in abject confession of his failure. His earlier admission had been easy banter. This time, it hurt.

"Gil, honey, you deserve to be happy. I don't know if Sara can make you happy, but I do know that you can't ever be happy until you've offered her the opportunity to decide for herself. If she doesn't love you like you love her, then maybe I'll stand a chance."

Now his guilt had two faces, and the one sitting across the table from him was doing for him what he didn't have the guts to do for Sara. "I thought you said it was no emotional strings attached."

"It was," she confirmed with a rueful laugh. "But you, like my two dearly departed husbands, got through the armor around my heart."

"Oh." He reached for her hands this time, hoping to comfort her somehow. "I'm sorry, Hank. I didn't know."

"Hell, Gil, I didn't know, either, until I got home. And after two years of nothing in the mail, well . . ."

"You thought you'd take a chance and see what had happened."

"Mmm." She squeezed his hands, let hers rest in his while she studied their intertwined fingers. "Here's the thing, Gil. I want you. Almost as much as you want Sara. But I'm not going to give in to my desire unless you come back here before I leave and tell me that Sara doesn't want you. I'll take you however I can get you after that for as long as you'll have me."

Grissom sat back hard without letting go of Hank's hands. He expected to be seduced, not offered a woman's heart. Lady Heather's offer had been a ruse, or so he chose to believe. This, however, was very real.

It didn't help to know that the woman who had just handed him her heart on a silver platter was both very talented and very forgiving in bed. She had given him permission to fantasize about Sara while they were . . . _screwing around_ seemed the best description, neither as cold as _fucking_ nor as intimate as _making love_ . . . and between Hank's ministrations and the images of Sara in his head, well . . . a short fall rock climbing had been a good cover story for his soreness and some bruising upon his return to Las Vegas in time for Thanksgiving. Never mind that the closest he got to any rocks while he was in Scottsdale were the ones he walked past on the way to his conference and her suite.

He could take the coward's way out and just dodge Hank's calls all week. He could play the cowardly fiend and come back the next day proclaiming Sara's rejection to take advantage of what he could get as a sure thing. He could be the fiend and just take Hank now – the look on her face invited him to do so.

But she knew as well as he did that he had to be able to look himself in the mirror every morning, and the way she set up her proposition, there was only one way he would be able to do that by the end of the week: talk to Sara and come back to Hank with the results.

Hank laughed as he was about to speak but didn't look up from their joined fingers. "Someone had to push you out of your comfort zone."

"I doubt anyone else could have done so as thoroughly." He hoped he didn't sound bitter or angry.

She looked up at him then, green eyes brimming with tears. "I just want you to be happy, Gilbert Grissom. I don't think you will be with anyone but Sara. I'm willing to try to make you happy if she's not."

Her reiteration twisted his heart more. She deserved to be happy, too. Both of her husbands had died in the line of duty. The first one, a Marine helicopter pilot, got shot down by friendly fire during the Gulf War. The second one, a Naval aviator, died after he rescued four other men from a flash fire on a carrier providing air support for _Operation Enduring Freedom_ in Afghanistan, a year to the day before she found Grissom looking, "Lost, forlorn, and desperately in love with someone you think you can't have," at the hotel's poolside bar in Scottsdale.

Hank had also had at least two miscarriages, one in each marriage. As she had put it back when they first met, the more success she had professionally, the more tragedy she suffered in her personal life.

He could love Hank. If it weren't for Sara.

"If it weren't for Sara," he repeated, this time in a whisper.

"But it is. And it's for you." She untangled her fingers from his and sat back against the booth. "I won't call you. But don't leave me hanging. Please?"

That was the easiest thing she had asked of him all morning. "I won't."


	3. Figuring

DISCLAIMER: Last time I checked, the evidence was stacked against me in my claim to own even a single stock option in the many partners who make up the CSI franchise. Therefore, I plead guilty to the charge of having fun with the crew and promise to have them back in time for the next night shift to start.

- - - - -

If Grissom thought that after his encounter with Hank he was going to get any sleep, he had been fooling himself masterfully.

"Idiot," he said to the face in the mirror as he washed his hands, having successfully transplanted two cacti and fed all of his various insect and arachnid pets. He'd only done that because in two hours of horizontal mattress occupation, he'd lain awake thinking of every stupid thing he'd ever said to Sara that would make her reject him.

What really made him an idiot was that he was quite sure his list was far from exhaustive. After all, he'd had just over four years since her decision to stay in Vegas to hurt her while trying to protect himself from his feelings.

Where would they be now if he had accepted her invitation to dinner? Further back, what if he had taken the time after the baby case to talk to her about the difference between taking every case personally and having a special victim? What if he had told her when he asked her to stay in Las Vegas that it really was more because he loved her than because he needed her on his team?

A thought struck him with such bitter irony that he had to spit the taste out of his mouth. Hank Pettigrew. Hank Fitzhenry. One nearly destroyed any hope of even friendship between him and Sara, while the other might be the savior of their relationship. Maybe a daughter named Henrietta Sidle Grissom could go by "Hank" in homage, but damned sure no son of his would ever . . .

_Children? I don't want children. Do I?_

He never had before. But he had never conversed with Sara about it, and what if she did?

Hank did, he knew that. It would be criminal to deprive the world of her children, based on what he had seen when he watched her interact with a group of her colleague's children in the pool.

It would also be criminal to deprive the world of Sara's children. She had so much to offer, nature and nurture. Did she know that?

He didn't know. And deciding that he couldn't know until he knew the answer to at least one other question, he sat down in his recliner and turned on his TV and DVD player. _Silence of the Lambs_ resumed just before Anthony Hopkins said his famous line, "I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."

With any luck, the movie would drag his mind away from his turmoil and allow him to sleep for at least a little while.

- - - - -

His dreams left him feeling logy and unfulfilled. Sara and Hank – Fitzhenry, not Pettigrew – traded places in his bed as often as he blinked, their voices blending into one melodious scolding interrupted by cries of ecstasy.

He did, however, sleep long enough to make further rest pointless. He didn't think that he would sleep any better, or any longer, until he had spoken with Sara, who was working a double. Would it be better to talk to her on her resulting hour-long break at 1:00 in the morning or to meet her for breakfast when her shift ended at 7:00? One would be sooner for him. Seven would give them more time to talk if they needed it, or time to process and get over any awkwardness before either of them had to be at work again if she turned him down.

Breakfast it would be. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, wondering now when to call to make the date. Sara was off for the next two nights after this shift; would she have made plans already that precluded a breakfast date with him? He didn't think so, based on her history, but the thaw between them wasn't yet fluid enough for him to know her leisure time plans.

"There's only one way to find out," he told himself, reaching for his cell phone on the end table to his left. It still took him half an hour and seven attempts before he actually pressed the "send" button.

"Grissom, you're supposed to be off," she said in greeting after two rings. "If I remember correctly, that means you don't call us, we call you."

He laughed a little. He had once given her that exact lecture when she kept calling in looking to cover shifts on her nights off. "Well, true, but there's nothing that says I can't make a, um, social call." He hated that his voice dropped when he got to the end of his statement.

"A social call? While I'm on the clock? Gris, are you okay?" He wished he could hear laughter in her voice, but her tone reminded him of the one she used when she was worried about a piece of evidence that wasn't adding up.

"I'm fine, Sara." Taking a deep breath for courage, he spoke in a rush. "I'll be even better if you meet me for breakfast at the 'Niner's Nook." That was her favorite place for breakfast, but he knew she didn't treat herself to it often because it was on the pricey side for Vegas eateries.

"Wow. I mean, the 'Niner's Nook. You remembered. I'm, uh . . ."

He visualized her standing with one hand on her phone at her ear and one hand running through her hair, trying to overcome her hesitation or embarrassment or whatever it was that left her speechless at the end.

"Seven thirty?" If she turned him down, would it be a sign of her lack of interest or of her wariness, after all he had put her through?

"Make it eight thirty so I can shower and change before I meet you. I don't want to go to a swanky place for breakfast smelling like what I'm going to be processing out back."

He could just hear the ubiquitous bells, whistles, and coin chinking of the Strip in the background and felt a bit guilty for interrupting her not just at work but on a case. He'd hear soon enough what case she had caught; right now, he wanted to confirm their date before either of them could think about it. He pushed himself up from the chair with more energy than he thought he could have after such a poor day's sleep. "Eight thirty it is. And Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"I figured it out." He clicked off before she could ask him what he meant.

- - - - -

If Sara didn't return to his place with him, at least he wouldn't have to worry about inviting people over for a while – every surface had been dusted, vacuumed, sterilized or polished twice over before 1 a.m. Grissom arrived at the restaurant a half hour early to avoid staring at the now spotless walls of his apartment with the desperate anxiety that had invaded his consciousness when he finally sat down.

The question before him was whether to sit in the truck until Sara arrived or to go in and claim a table for two in the back, out of the way of the Las Vegas _glitterati_ and accompanying _paparazzi _who looked for their daily scraps of gossip based on who sat with whom after a night on the town. On the one hand, he could escort Sara in if he waited, but if he didn't claim a table before the morning rush, they might have to wait as long as 45 minutes for a table. He had just about decided to wait when three limousines pulled into the lot.

He scrambled out of his truck and made it inside the door just as the first limo disgorged three Hollywood couples and their two bodyguards. With a sigh of relief, Grissom asked for a table and followed a smiling host to a table for two by the corner window. He would be able to see Sara when she walked in, which he knew she would do because she couldn't miss his truck in the lot.

Time had never passed so slowly. His server came back with two glasses of ice water only a minute after walking away, but it felt like an hour. Individual flashes of the _paparazzi_ cameras lasted so long that Grissom swore the sun had gone nova a dozen times over. He aged three years in the ten minutes he waited for Sara to come in the door.

When she did, however, twenty years dropped off of him in a single breath. She stunned him silent as she glided her way toward him at the host's direction.

"Grissom?"

He had no idea how he had risen to his feet, or how long Sara had stood before him in his dumbfounded state. He did know that he needed to say something, anything, that would give her at least an inkling of how beautiful she looked in her short, slim emerald skirt and black v-neck tank sweater. She had pinned her hair up, leaving just a little bit hanging loose to draw attention to her long, graceful neck. More of Sara Sidle's creamy white skin showed now than he had seen in a long time, and if he weren't careful, a part of his body other than his lips would have the first say this morning.

"Oh, my God, Sara, you are . . . exquisite."

She blushed and looked away for a moment, but turned back to face him when he moved to hold out her chair for her.

"You are, you know." He leaned down to kiss her cheek before he pushed her chair in again, restraining his urge to claim her lips on the spot.

He watched her as she watched him settle in his seat before she spoke. "Thank you. And thank you for inviting me to breakfast. I've missed . . ." She waved her hands around as though searching for a word in the air.

"Our companionship?" he supplied. He wanted to capture her hands and hold them to his chest so she could feel his heart pounding his love for her.

"Yeah." She raised her water glass. "You don't look so bad yourself, Gris."

He shrugged. "The 'Niner's Nook requires slightly more formal attire than what I wear to work." He might, someday, if things went the way he hoped they would today, tell her how much he had worried about what to wear. The charcoal pinstripe suit was one he owned mostly for the stuffiest of academic and professional events. For those, however, he would never have worn his royal blue oxford. He might have worn the tie, though – tiny white ants on a black background.

That brilliant smile graced her face again. "We weren't thinking about this place when we gave you the tie for your birthday, but I think it works with the ensemble."

"Thanks."

They talked about her shifts, about the decomp in the kitchen dumpster at the Mirage, and about how strange it was to be working without Catherine, Nick, and Warrick on their team. And, for that matter, how odd it was to have Sophie on their team. They talked about a new species of cockroach recently identified in the Amazon rainforest, and about the increasing aggression of the wild cats in the mountains around Vegas.

Their server had to come back three times before they were ready to order, which wasn't all that unusual an occurrence, he assured them when they tried to apologize. He smiled at them after he confirmed their orders of Eggs Benedict for Grissom and their famous chocolate-chocolate chip pancakes for Sara. "I will say, though, that it's nice for the reason to be romance rather than over-consumption of alcohol and drugs." He nodded toward the table at the back of the restaurant where eleven famous couples sat, all trying to be hip and cool while suffering varying stages of hangover.

Grissom tensed, wondering what Sara's reaction would be, but her smile and the look she sent to the Hollywood intruders eased his concern. More so her words when she looked back into his eyes but answered the young man standing beside their table. "It is, isn't it?"

The server just grinned and walked away with a promise to bring their coffees.

"Why did you invite me to breakfast?" Sara's eyes narrowed at him as she played with the condensation on her water glass.

He looked away from her as he answered. "For the same reason you said yes."

"Don't be so sure about that, Grissom."

He looked back at her, blinking hard at her raw tone. "You said you missed our companionship."

"I do." She smiled up at him and went on in a warmer, more hopeful tone. "But that's not really why I said yes."

_Could it be?_ The possibility that she wanted to come because she loved him had never really crossed his mind; he was too focused on getting his own feelings out to worry much about what she might feel. _God, what if she said yes because she needs to tell me she's met someone else?_

He felt her take his hand across the table, feeling at his wrist for his pulse. "Gris? You okay? You look peaked all of a sudden."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she spoke before he could. "Your pulse is racing. Have you seen the doctor lately?"

He smiled at her grimace of concern and took her fingers in his hand. "Last month, clean bill of health, I'm just supposed to monitor the tachycardia and tell him if it ever goes about 130 or if it comes with shortness of breath or chest pains." He squeezed her fingers between his thumb and his palm. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me for quite a while longer, Sara."

"The rest of my life, I hope."

Two cups of coffee arrived just at that moment, giving him enough of a distraction to avoid the chest pain and shortness of breath he felt coming when he realized the implications of her words. He wrestled with a response as she fixed his coffee the way she knew he took it when he wasn't looking for the caffeine hit at work, then added cream to hers and sipped at it as she watched him with a wry smile.

Her eyes crinkled after a moment and she once again beat him to the spoken word. "That's why I said yes, by the way."

He smiled back at her. "That's why I asked."

"Because you hope to be around for the rest of your life? How . . . existential of you, Gris."

He wanted to lean over the table and kiss the perverse smile off her beautiful face. He could tell by the surprise flying across her brown eyes that she knew exactly what he meant despite her teasing lips. "Only if you're in it."

Sara raised her coffee cup to him in a toast, conceding the verbal joust. "Seriously, thank you. I really do want to fix . . . this."

He didn't miss her emphasis on the final word. "This" had plagued him for over ten years. Hank was right – it was past time to set "this" to right and to trust that together, he and Sara would figure it out. He raised her fingers to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the pad of each as if he would only have this one chance to show her exactly how he felt about her.

His reward was a gasp of what he hoped was desire awakening. "I want to fix . . . this, too."

He didn't let go of her hand until their plates arrived, and then they ate in silence. He didn't know why she was so quiet, but he was afraid to spoil the sensually charged atmosphere with words not worthy of the moment – and the only words worthy of the moment needed to be said in the privacy of wherever she was most comfortable continuing the conversation.

He studied her as they ate, feeling himself blush more than once as thoughts of what he wanted to do to show her the depth of his love intruded on his survey. But he never looked away. Neither did she. He wondered if the pink that crept across her face every so often had the same cause as his and hoped he would have the chance to find out one day.

Only after their unobtrusive server had cleared their empty plates and come back with the check did she speak again. "That was delicious. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Sara, can we continue this morning, or are you too tired?" It wasn't the smoothest invitation, but he hoped it got his point across.

She stretched her arms over her head, revealing an expanse of her flat stomach between her sweater and her skirt. "I would very much like to continue this morning's adventure. I'd invite you back to my place, but I haven't cleaned it since Warrick's birthday bash." She grinned. "Except the beer bottles and the left over dip, that is."

Grissom smiled back at her as he took in her exposed skin. The party at her apartment three weeks before had been a smashing success, if the amount of beer consumed was any indication. He was still convinced that Greg had been hung over at work the next shift, but since even in that condition he as a trainee was better than anyone else in the lab save the now splintered nightshift, he'd let it pass. Besides, he had gone to the party and allowed himself to get a bit buzzed, even though he had to leave early for a supervisor's meeting. "You've been busy since."

She nodded and brought her arms back to her sides, leaving him feeling lightheaded at the loss of his view. "Slightly."

"May I entice you back to my place?"

Sara sat back and cocked her head at him with an unmistakably quizzical look.

"Yes, I'm serious. I'd really like to spend some more time with you. If you're okay with it, my place is cleaner than yours." She would probably laugh at him for how clean.

Her whispered reply sent shivers running the length of his spine. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do on my nights off."


	4. Singing

DISCLAIMER: Last time I checked, the evidence was stacked against me in my claim to own even a single stock option in the many partners who make up the CSI franchise. Therefore, I plead guilty to the charge of having fun with the crew and promise to have them back in time for the next night shift to start.

- - - - -

Sara followed Grissom back to his townhouse, where she parked in the guest lot between two other big SUVs belonging to visitors from Texas. "It figures," she said to his back as he worked the deadbolt to his front door. "My Tahoe looks miniscule next to those Escalades. No wonder Nicky wants one."

"The old 'Everything's bigger in Texas' phenomenon, I guess." He pushed the door open and ushered her in ahead of him. He took off his suit coat, tie, and shoes out of habit before he pulled the door closed behind him.

She waited until they were closed inside to reply to his statement. "Or so they like to think. That's one thing I'm not at all anxious to discover for myself." She followed his example and kicked off her shoes, revealing toenails painted a surprising hot pink.

It took him a minute to figure out that she was referring not to Texas but to Nick's physical attributes. He figured out why she said it less than a breath later. _So there's nothing sexual between her and Nick._ He had wondered more than once. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, watching as she wandered around his home.

She stopped in the hallway outside his bedroom. She turned toward him and flashed a dazzling "come hither" smile. "I should hope so."

A print of Ansel Adams' _Fresh Snow, Yosemite Valley_ caught her attention. "I would have expected a desert photo, maybe _Canyon de Chelly_, not a winter picture."

He crossed his apartment to stand beside her. "Why?"

"Las Vegas is a desert town. Adam's desert prints are just, I don't know, appropriate."

Standing this close to Sara, he could smell the tropical lushness of lime and coconut, not Sara's usual scent. Then he remembered that Catherine had given her a gift basket from Bath & Body Works for hosting Warrick's party. And Catherine, ever the romantic, had made a point of showing him its contents ahead of time. Leave it to her to make use of a detail from a ten-year old story when it suited her purposes.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to visit the cherished memory of the first day Sara asked to meet him for coffee after class to discuss his Harvard lecture in more detail. The unusually humid, hot weather left them both dripping by the time they got to the coffee shop, which was out of iced coffee. He had tea, but Sara had a piña colada smoothie that came garnished with a slice of coconut and a wedge of lime. For the rest of the day, he reveled in those sinfully erotic scents.

Somehow, they ended up on Newbury Street in FAO Schwartz, where they had danced and sung like sleep-deprived parents to Kermit the Frog's rendition of "Coconut" playing by incredible coincidence on the store's big video screen. He wondered if she had paid enough attention to retain even the foggiest memory of that arguably most absurd part of an absurd day.

Sara was still studying the picture when he opened his eyes. "Appropriate for the town, perhaps. Maybe the winter print suits my personality better."

She turned her face to him, her brown eyes large and hazed with something he could only hope was expectation. "And why would that be?"

"I think I'm less 'hot' and more 'frosty'."

Sara sucked in a breath as she turned her body toward him. She reached out with both arms, placing her hands on his chest. "You'd be wrong."

"What else am I wrong about, Sara?" He wrapped his hands around her arms, caressing skin that was even smoother than he had imagined.

"Where do I start?" She threw back her head, laughing at him with the abandon he wanted to hear. But it wasn't her laughter that mesmerized him. Her elegant throat beckoned to him, calling him to sweep his lips from her chin to her peeking cleavage with desperate desire, shocking her into a still silence that became a moan.

"Oh-h-h, Gi-i-i-l . . ."

He pulled back, smiling at her flushed face as he restrained himself from diving in to suck at the rapid flutter of her pulse in her carotid artery. "I've been waiting to hear you say my name for a long time."

Her eyes flashed up to him for a second before she dropped them down to her hands where they lay, stark and white against the vivid blue of his shirt. "C-can't trust myself to say it very often . . ."

He tugged her to him to cradle her head in his shoulder, savoring the feel of her body molded against his. "Why not?"

"I am afraid," she said simply. When he started to ask why, she put her index finger to his lips and held it there, tempting him to take it in and suckle it. "I'm afraid that if I say 'Gil' instead of 'Gris' or 'Grissom', it will come out like it always does in my dreams."

"You dream about me?" He took the opportunity to run his tongue down her finger, then sucked the "v" between her finger and her thumb, earning a low, impatient rumble from her.

"Since the day we talked about flippers in coconut shells on the tables at our wedding reception," she admitted, her breath blazing a trail from his chin to his ear.

"_He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up_," he sang to her through the blood singing in his ears.

She nibbled at his earlobe and brought her arms around his neck. "Did you pick out the gift basket?"

"Ah, um . . . no-o-o," he all but moaned as she licked the rim of his ear. "C-C-Catherine did that, and . . . it . . . wasn't . . . a . . .co . . . in . . . ci . . . dence."

"You told her about our magic day?"

Her breath on his wet skin made him shiver and he pulled her closer, ready to bury himself in her warmth and never come out. He took a deep breath and leaned his head back against the wall so he could look down into her eyes. "If I remember correctly, she cornered me one night before shift about a week after I got back from Harvard and demanded to know why I was so happy or she was going to coin a nickname for me that I would despise for a lifetime."

Sara smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with what he prayed was true happiness. "You caved?"

"Ever heard anyone calling me 'Giddy Gris?'"

"Uh, no."

He dipped his head into her bare neck to wallow in the scent of his favorite fruits on his favorite woman. "Now you know why I caved. Catherine was kind enough to show me the body stuff ahead of time, just in case I really objected, maybe. It's also possible that she would have smacked me upside the head and told me to remove my cranium from my rectum had I complained."

She moaned as he nipped against her pulse. "Remind me to thank Catherine."

He murmured his way up her throat and chin. "We can thank her together."

The kiss they shared bore no resemblance to anything he had ever experienced before. Heat between them burned away years of denial and dishonesty, leaving scars that healed in an instant as the balm of fervor and frankness soothed each hurt, each misunderstanding, each snub between them. The raw power of their apologies and admissions left him weak in the knees and he collapsed against the wall, crushing her to him for fear that when they finally had to breathe, she would vanish into the nether reaches of a dream as she had so many times before.

But she was still there when he finally had to let go, her lips swollen and smiling, her eyes glistening with tears that spilled down her cheeks. His thumb looked hard and rough alongside her sculpted face, which made him smile a little. And then he looked into her mocha eyes and saw what he had only dared to dream: Sara Sidle loved him. He smiled so broadly that he thought his face would crack, but he didn't care.

"What?" She cupped his cheeks in her warm hands, stroking his beard as she stared back at him.

"I love you, Sara." It came out so easily in the end, without preamble and without a second thought as to consequences.

Her eyes widened. "You do, don't you?"

He couldn't fault the disbelief in her tone, even after their kiss. He had been telling her otherwise, in deeds and even, he had to admit, in words, for ten years. One single kiss, however healing it might have been for him, would not assure her of the depth of his commitment to her. "I do. God help me, I have since . . . well, probably since the moment I laid eyes on you, honestly."

She pushed back a little. "It's kind of funny to hear an atheist ask God for help."

Her smile teased him into nibbling at her lips for another minute before he decided he needed to answer her. "Which just proves that I really don't want help falling out of love, because I like being in love and loving you so much."

She snuggled back into his shoulder, reaching around him to hold on with more strength than he would have credited her. "Why now?"

Maybe it was the relief of having the secret of his love out in the open, or maybe it was exhaustion. It may even have been a conscious decision to tell her the truth. "Someone gave me an ultimatum."

"Catherine again?"

"No, not this time. Someone I met a couple of years ago at a conference."

"The sex therapist?"

He looked down at her in disbelief. "How did you know?

Sara's smirk faltered for just a moment, so briefly that he almost missed it. From anyone but her, it would make him question the veracity of what she said next. From her, it was more likely the connection between him and Hank that had her off-kilter.

She grinned at him and licked a path up his neck before she spoke. "My first assignment tonight, if you remember, took me to the Mirage, where Dr. R. R. 'Hank' Fitzhenry happens to be the keynote speaker for annual convention of the Association of Professional Marriage and Family Counselors."

The Mirage. He hadn't caught it before, and now he felt like a fool for missing something so obvious and so . . . _dangerous._ "You ran into her in person."

"Yes."

Did he really want to follow up on their encounter? He probably should, if only so he could gage Sara's knowledge of his relationship with Hank. _Wait a minute!_ "Is she a suspect in the Mirage case?"

"Heavens, no."

"Then how did you make the connection between her and me?"

"Please, Gil, I've known about her since she called for you once just after your conference in Arizona. You were in a meeting with the Sheriff. We had an enlightening conversation."

He swallowed hard. "No . . ."

"Relax, it wasn't about you. I was in the middle of a marital rape case. Her book on power and violence in marriage had been a good resource for me already, so I talked to an expert who just happened to call at an opportune time." She pushed away from his chest a little and looked up at him with a smirk. "What would she have said had we talked about you?"

"What did she say tonight?" he asked, deflecting her inquisition.

Her lips twitched before she laughed at him. When she could talk again, she acquiesced to his change of subject. "As I was finishing, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned to see what this person wanted, said Dr. Fitzhenry broke into a broad smile and announced to the entire casino, and I quote, 'God, the man has good taste.'"

"Before you continue, can we please sit down? I'm not sure I'll be able to take this standing up." His stomach, at least, had dropped to his toes and threatened to topple him with its weight. He kissed her forehead in apology as he led her back down the hallway to his couch.

He all but fell into the cushions, his legs stretched out and open to allow her to sit against his chest. She snuggled along his length and made him acutely aware of every nerve in his body as she continued her story.

"Then she introduced herself officially, told me to call her Hank, and asked how the rape case went in court. I have no idea how she remembered the details after two years, but she did."

"Hank is good like that. It's a gift, I suppose." He was relieved to know he wasn't the only one who marveled at Hank's memory for people's stories. "Go on. I think."

She shifted around to nibble his chin for a moment. When she resumed, she started to stroke his thighs in subtle rhythm with her words. "Hank then asked me if I'd seen you since the end of the previous shift, which I thought was a little odd. But even more odd was what she said after that."

Grissom had to end this part of the conversation sooner rather than later if he was going to have any dignity left – or at least get her to stop using her hands in such an erotic fashion before they were ready to go back down the hallway. "Which was?" he asked through teeth tightly clamped together against his building arousal.

"She said, and again, I'm quoting, 'You're the only woman who can save Gil from himself. If you love him even a little, promise me you'll do everything in your power to make him happy.'" Her hands moved closer together, playing in the folds of his hips.

He laughed a little and shook his head. "Which is why . . . oh, Hank, you are just entirely too much."

"I think she loves you." Sara didn't sound at all jealous – but then, he thought, Sara was the woman sitting between his legs doing incredibly sensual things with her hands. "Do you love her?"

He took her hands in his and raised each one to his lips, then wrapped their entwined arms around her body. "I'll be honest, Sara. I could love Hank. But I would have to get over you first, and I just don't see that happening in this lifetime. Or the next. Or even the one after that. The fourth one, well . . ."

She giggled. "Well, by the fourth lifetime, we might be tired of each other," she conceded. "The upshot of my encounter with the good Dr. Fitzhenry is that she pretty much prepared me for your phone call."

"When was this?"

Sara turned to him and gave him the most dazzling smile he had ever seen. "About thirty seconds before you called."

He swallowed hard again and could feel himself turning red with embarrassment. "She heard the whole thing."

"She gave me two thumbs up, a hug, a message for you, and some final parting advice which we will discuss after I've taken it."

"Oh, God."

"Again, an atheist invoking God? Gil, something has made you stupid this morning."

If she hadn't been stretched out and pressed into him, he would have been offended by that observation. As it was, he had a perfect excuse. "Lack of oxygen decreases mental function. You've taken my breath away since you walked into the restaurant."

"Flatterer. Hank's parting advice was to pay particular attention to the crease behind your left knee."

He sucked in a breath and tried to figure out what to say, but when he felt her lips nuzzling against the skin above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, he went dumb again as the oxygen burned out of his brain. He could only moan as she opened the rest of his shirt and laid kisses down to his navel.

"Gil?" He felt his name against his stomach more than heard it. His stomach righted itself as he realized that everything was going to be okay.

"Mmmhhh . . ."

She unbuttoned his trousers. "We have all day to enjoy each other's company."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She drew the zipper down with agonizing precision. "In fact, we don't have anywhere else to be until 11 o'clock Friday night."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She slid his pants over his hips. "That's 60 hours from now."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She picked up his right leg a little and skimmed the pants leg off, caressing his bare leg with both hands as she spoke. "You need to sleep for 12 of those 60 hours."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She licked the up length of his right leg and back down, then up again to suck gently at the crease of his knee.

"Sssah . . .raaah . . ."

Her hands never stopped, twirling the sensitive hairs she found as though they were her sole focus. "And that's not even the one she told me about. Oh, my."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She drew the remaining cloth down his left leg, torturing him with her attention to detail as she surveyed every inch of his exposed skin with her tender fingertips. "That leaves us 48 hours."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She whipped each of his socks off in turn. "That's two whole days."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She stroked his right foot, massaging each toe, then did the same to his left foot. "We could do a lot of things in those two days."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She nibbled his left ankle, then trailed her tongue up the top of his leg to his hip. "I've been wanting to go to the lake for a picnic."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She lifted his left leg up and started down the backside, skirting around his knee. "I've been thinking about going to the zoo, too."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

She licked around his calf, making her way to his knee. "And there's this movie . . ."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He stiffened when her lips met the skin at the back of his left knee. He found his voice and his strength.

"I want you, Sara. I want you right now," he said to her as he all but tossed her over his shoulder and stood up.

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ." She sighed and relaxed in his arms as he carried her into his bedroom and sat her on his bed.

He whipped her sweater off, revealing a scrap of black lace that someone had decided was a strapless bra. "We don't have to be at work for 60 hours."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He splayed his hands around her waist, raising goosebumps as he stroked her bare stomach. "You really should sleep for 12 of those hours, even though you think you don't need to."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He found the hook and zipper of her skirt at her side and opened them, trailing one finger along her exposed waist. "That leaves us two days."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He slid her skirt down inch by inch, disclosing the hipster panties that matched the bra and baring her long, muscular legs. "I've been wanting to do some exploring of the more phenomenal features of our area."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He picked up her right foot and massaged it, feeling her bones melt before he began his own nibbling expedition of that leg. "What I'm thinking of is the hottest territory in the state."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He repeated his actions on her left foot and leg, exulting in her ragged breathing and dripping skin. "And in the United States."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He moved up to nuzzle her flat stomach, sweeping closer to her lace-bound breasts with each pass of his tongue as he grazed her hardened nipples with his palms. "And, truth be told, in the entire world."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He popped the front fastener of her bra and pulled it from under her, tossing it to the floor with her skirt and top. "This expedition could take two days."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He sat her up and took her left nipple into his mouth, holding her to him so he could focus all his attention on that one responsive place until she arched into him.

"Gii . . . iiilll . . ."

He smiled against her. "Of course, this expedition may take far longer than two days."

"Mmmhhhmmm . . ."

He lavished the valley between her breasts with attention, then suckled at her right breast until she gripped his hair and pulled him up to fuse her lips to his.

Neither one of them spoke again, instead letting their bodies communicate at levels both too simple and too complex for words. He wasn't sure where he ended and Sara began. They melded together in the heat of a passion that transcended the mere physical to rise to religious, soul-shaping regions of experience.

In what little of his brain functioned enough to think, he realized that this was the first time he had ever truly made love. Two had become one yet remained distinctly two as they touched, caressed, teased, nipped, sucked, writhed, and crashed into each other.

As good as the lovemaking had been, he knew he had discovered his drug of choice in the afterglow of their satiation. They lay together in the sweat-soaked sheets, too tired to worry about the dampness and too enthralled with the magnitude of their experience to talk. But neither of them could stay still. Instead their hands trailed up and down exposed flesh, gliding over the other's body as though to stake permanent claim on the territory.

A while later, Sara tugged him into her arms and laid her head on his shoulder. "Before I forget, Hank said to tell you that she expects you to return something to her before she leaves town on Sunday," she said, her velvet voice sleepy as she snuggled into him. "And she wants a date to put into her calendar. Is that supposed to mean something to me, too?"

He laughed and nuzzled her hair. "It will." The thought of a wedding date made him smile into her hair as he mumbled tunefully in her ear. _"He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up." _He slipped his legs around hers and gathered her against him, rolling them onto their sides so they could spoon as they slept. He never wanted to sleep again without wrapping himself in her tropical scent. "I love you, Sara."

"I love you, too, Gil."

He tried to wait, but within a minute, he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep before he completed the task at hand. "Good. So, is a date in, say, April after Easter far enough away for a tasteful wedding somewhere other than a typical Las Vegas chapel?"

He laughed at how fast she sat up and turned to stare wide-eyed at him, even though he had to duck to avoid a flailing arm as she did so. "Oh, my God, Gil. Are you asking me to marry you?"

"An atheist invoking God? Something has made you stupid this afternoon," he mocked as he reached over to pull open the drawer of his nightstand. He retrieved a small deep blue velvet box, opened it, and handed it to Sara.

"So, Sara Sidle, will you marry me?"

She gaped at the box. "There are diamonds and emeralds on this ring. Big ones."

"Yes."

She gaped at him, her eyes taking up her whole face in wonderment. "You paid attention."

He took the box from her, removed the ring, and held it up to her. "And if you look, you'll see that there are a palm tree, a lime, and a frog engraved on the inside of the band."

"This is absurd, Gil."

He grinned at her. _"He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up."_

She gave him a full-blown smile and crinkled her teary eyes at him. "I guess we've been pretty absurd from the get-go, huh?"

"Yes. And in case you're wondering, I brought that back from Boston with me." Seeing her speechless in front of the Bailey, Banks, and Biddle window just once had been enough for him to know what ring he would put on her finger, and for once in his life he had acted on his first impulse.

The look she gave him made him want to recite Newton's laws, the periodic table, and every baseball statistic he could think of so he could get through this conversation without ravishing her.

"Well? Are you going to answer me?"

She bounced on the bed as she took the ring from him. _"He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up."_

"Sara . . ."

She slid the ring on her right hand. _"He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up."_

"You're elevating my heart rate here, honey." But he had to admit he was as turned on as he had ever been in his life.

She slipped the ring off and pondered it before she tried it on her left ring finger. _"He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up."_

"So?" If she taunted him any more, he wouldn't be responsible for his acts.

"YES!"

"_He put the lime in the coconut and drank it all up,"_ he sang before he kissed his fiancée.

_--FIN—_

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The repeated lyric comes from a _Muppet Show_ skit that was later placed on a sing-a-long tape. Jim Henson, et al., adapted the words a bit from the original by Harry Nilsson, recorded on the EMI Blackwood label in June, 1971. The Muppet's version is available on the National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences Sing-a-long page on the NIS website.


End file.
